


Miscellaneous Arcana Fics

by SerenityLost



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Dom/sub, Fluff, Gen, Gore, Implied Nudity, Innocent Choking, Other, Sexual Tension, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-04 09:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14590002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenityLost/pseuds/SerenityLost
Summary: Asra x Julian. A striptease of sorts.





	1. Puddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asra x Julian. A striptease of sorts.

“Oh, Ilya. What are you doing?”

Julian peered out at Asra through sopping wet locks that clung in curling trails across his face. Water dripped from his hair and clothing, running down in small rivulets to splash onto the floor of the shop.

“I, ah. I happened to be in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”

It was a poor excuse, considering the late hour. And the terrible weather. He didn’t know why he bothered with excuses, really. Why it seemed too much just to say: _I wanted to see you._

“Mmmm.” Asra gazed at him with a placid expression, violet eyes shimmering, ethereal in the dim light. Julian was struck, as he always was, with the beauty of him – hair like heaven, eyes like gems, form like liquid steel coiled into easy grace.

Julian moved to approach, wanting to be near him, longing to touch–

“Stop, Ilya.”

He halted abruptly.

Asra’s eyes trailed over him, inching down his figure...then settled on the floor beneath his feet.

“You’re making puddles.”

“Oh. I, ah– I’m sorry. I’ll just–”

“Take off your coat,” Asra interrupted. “Leave it by the door.”

Julian obliged, shucking his dripping overcoat in one swift motion and hanging it in the entryway.

“Sorry about the mess. It’s really coming down out there,” he began conversationally, taking a few steps toward Asra.

But the magician held up a hand to stay him, and Julian stopped once more.

“The jacket, too. You’re still dripping.”

“Am I?” Julian glanced down at himself. It was true – the water had worked its way under his overcoat and was glistening off the fabric of his jacket. That was nothing, however, compared to the deluge of his boots.

He quirked an eyebrow at Asra, grinning as he reached for the fastenings of his jacket. “Maybe I should take it all off, then.”

Asra smiled, unfazed. “That _is_ what you came here for, isn’t it?”

“Well– I, uh. I mean.” Heat rose in Julian’s cheeks. “Like I said, I was in the neighborhood…”

“You talk too much. Take it off.”

Julian swallowed and fell silent. He pulled at the jacket, snapping it open with a quick jerk of his fingers. Asra stepped closer, watching him intently, a lazy, catlike smile on his lips.

“Slower, Ilya. Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

Julian paused with his jacket halfway off his shoulders, noting the keen interest reflected in Asra’s eyes. His blush crept further over his face, tickling at his ears.

He worked the jacket down his arms, moving slowly as he was told, and finally let it drop to the floor.

Asra hummed in appreciation. “Good. Now the gloves.”

A few more snaps to release, a few tugs at the leather. Julian made a point of pulling at each finger in turn before sliding the gloves off his hands. Asra ran his tongue out over his lip as he watched, his gaze held hostage by the clever workings of those fingers.

Once Julian was done, the next command came quickly.

“Boots.”

And the boots came off, kicked to the side to join the growing pile of clothing.

Asra came closer then, approaching him. Julian snaked a hand toward his waist to greet him– but Asra pulled out of reach.

“Ah ah ah. No touching, Ilya.” His smile was warm, his eyes twinkling as he met Julian’s gaze. “Not yet.”

Julian let his hands fall to his sides obediently, biting his lip as Asra drew close again, barely a foot between them now. He watched Asra’s face as his gaze trailed languidly over him, and Julian did his best to resist the temptation to reach out and touch.

Asra’s eyes came to rest on his chest. “Take off your shirt.”

Julian tugged the thin fabric rather ungracefully up over his head, letting it slide down his arms and fall to the floor, baring his skin to the gentle chill of the air.

Asra hummed, drinking in the sight of him. He lifted one graceful hand toward Julian’s torso – then stopped himself, his hand hovering mere inches from skin.

Julian’s breath caught in his throat. He could almost feel those soft fingers on him, though Asra didn’t come any closer. God, he wished the witch would just _touch_ him already.

“Your pants.” Asra’s voice was husky and low.

Julian obeyed.

Asra began to circle him slowly, eyes still roaming, hands still refusing to touch. The hair on the back of Julian’s neck stood on end as the magician passed behind him.

When his survey was complete, Asra stepped back, turned on his heel, and retreated upstairs.

Julian stood for a moment, blinking, breath short, unsure of what to do, before Asra poked his head back down the stairwell.

“Well? Are you coming?”


	2. Most Fun To Squeeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which everyone's favorite snake gives Julian some 'hugs'._

“Faust? _Fa-aust!”_ Asra called through the palace garden, his voice echoing among the trees. “Where did you go?”

He made his way through the greenery, searching for his missing familiar. As he rounded the corner of a large, cultivated hedge, his eyes fell upon a distinctly unusual sight.

It was Julian, lying prone, flailing weakly in the grass. His face was flush, his eyes wide, his hands clutching at something blue around his throat.

“Ah, _there_ you are.”

Asra knelt beside the doctor, and Julian reached out for him as he drew close, long fingers grasping at his arms and clothing. Julian’s mouth was open, but no sound passed his lips, and the color of his face was dangerously red.

Asra swatted away Julian’s desperate hands, trying to still him. “Ilya, relax. Stop squirming. Faust? You should probably let him breathe.”

_Fun to squeeze!_

“Yes, yes, I know. But there’s only so much he can take.”

He could feel the reluctance in his familiar’s mind as she shifted, loosening the tight coils she had made around the doctor’s neck, and latched onto Asra’s proffered arm instead.

Freed from Faust’s hold, Julian began to cough violently, spluttering and writhing in the grass while the snake wound her way up Asra’s arm to settle around his shoulders.

“ _Hack–_ I’m– _gaack–_ that sn– _hhhueey–_ she– _chhhck–”_

“Easy, now.” Asra took Julian by the shoulder, rubbing gently. “Don’t talk. Just breathe.”

Julian wheezed, coughed, and heaved a few more labored breaths before finally falling back against the grass, his eyes fluttering closed as his breathing began to even out.

“Your snake is trying to kill me,” he accused, once he’d regained (most of) his composure.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just playing.”

_Squeeze friend!_ Faust added with enthusiasm, though only Asra could hear.

“Playing with my life, you mean?” Julian replied. The words were contrary, but they had no bite to them – his voice was soft, his eyes still closed.

“ _Tsk.”_ Asra sighed, and took Julian’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together. “She knows better than to _actually_ hurt you.”

_Friend!_ the snake agreed.

“Besides...” With his other hand, Asra reached out and let his fingers brush softly over Julian’s throat, right where Faust had been just moments ago. Julian shuddered at the touch, his eyes flying wide abruptly and latching with Asra’s own.

“You’re alright,” Asra said. It came out somewhere between a statement and a question.

Julian swallowed slowly, caught in Asra’s steady gaze.

“I, ah– I’m, I mean– yes. I am. Alright, that is.”

Faust picked that moment to lift her head in front of Asra’s face, briefly flicking out her tongue to brush against his nose.

_Squeeze again??_

Asra laughed, breaking eye contact with Julian and leaning back on his heels to focus on the snake bobbing eagerly before him.

“Another time, Faust. Another time.”


	3. The Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have the plague. You meet Valdemar. That pretty much covers it, eh?
> 
> CW: Blood, cutting, torture, gore.

You have the plague.

It hit so suddenly. The coughing, the dizziness, the red in your eyes… You barely knew what was happening when they took you away, loaded you on a cart with so many other feverish bodies, the cries of your family echoing in your ears as black-gloved hands tore you from their arms.

There are so many of them, now. Bustling around you. Blood-stained tunics and black leather fingers. Long, pointed beaks looming beneath glassy eyes.

Your mind swims with a vague delirium, and visions dance in your head: clusters of black-winged birds cawing, cawing, so loud in your mind you can’t help but bring your hands to your ears. But of course it doesn’t help.

What was it they were called? A _murder_ of crows?

You shake your head vigorously, muttering nonsense to yourself, trying to clear your fevered thoughts.

 _They’re doctors,_ you think. _They’ll help._

But you know there is no cure.

Hands grasp at you, pull you to your feet, half-carry you across the room to an elevated table.

_Where am I?_

They lay you down on the stark metal. Your eyes flutter weakly and you gaze up at the dark ceiling above you. It’s damp, rocky, and the flickering torchlight does little to dispel the shadows that pool in its farthest recesses.

There are hands on you, everywhere. Something pulls at your arm and you turn to see those nameless, blackened fingers looping leather around your wrist, pulling at dangling straps.

_What…?_

You tug your hand away, but they snatch it back immediately, pulling you roughly back toward the straps, yanking at the bindings, cinching them around your wrist, buckles pulling tight, _tight._

That’s when you panic.

You buck up from the table, retrieving your other limbs, kicking out at the fowl-faced figures that swarm you. “ _Aaghh!”_ you wail incoherently. You can’t seem to manage words, but you can manage that.

“ _Hold them.”_ A sharp voice cuts through the crowd.

Several sets of leather hands fall on you at once, pushing you back down. You twist and squirm, trying desperately to shove them away, trying to pull free, but there are far too many of them, and you are far too weak.

You strain against them, eking out what little strength your plagued body has to offer. Sweat beads on your forehead with the effort, but it’s to no avail. They hold you firmly, leather bindings pulling tight around your limbs – wrists, ankles, shoulders, thighs – and when they finally step back your struggles echo futilely with the soft rasp of clothing and the dull creak of straining leather.

“Very good.” That voice rings out again, closer now, as a thin figure steps forward to loom over you. They gaze down at your helpless form, fingers steepled, their easy, composed expression belying the eager glint in their eye.

They do not wear a mask.

“Doctor 048.” Their voice is calm, controlled, precise. “If you would so kindly remove these unnecessary garments.”

You find yourself sweating under their unblinking gaze, your breath catching in your throat as a knife flashes above you, far too close for comfort, slipping under your clothing and snagging, tearing, making short work of the feeble cloth. Leathered fingers brush across your skin, pulling back the tattered garments, exposing you from neck to thigh to the damp chill of the thick, fetid air.

Your mind seems to be simultaneously frozen and running along at a mile a minute. _What is happening. What is happening. What is happening what is happening what is happening what…_

“Ah, yes. We can clearly see here some of the earliest symptoms of plague.” A single gloved finger presses to your chest, the icy chill of it making you gasp. “A mottled rash that spreads across the upper torso. Red in color.”

Their finger traces slowly along the blotchy mess that colors your skin. Their expression is almost wistful, a small smile pulling their lips wide across their face.

“Quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

The assembled doctors give no response.

“Doctor 124, are you taking notes?”

A nervous cough echoes through the cavern. “Y–yes, Quaestor.”

“Good, good. Now.” The finger is removed from your chest, and the sound of scraping metal tinkles softly beside you. “Today we will be observing the effects of the plague on the inner organs. Specifically, on the liver and kidneys.”

One hand comes to lay at the top of your abdomen, fingers spreading and pulling skin taut. The quaestor’s face breaks into a wide grin, revealing needle-sharp teeth that glint dangerously in the torchlight.

With the other hand, they brandish a scalpel.

Suddenly, you find your voice again.

“No...n–no, _no!”_ You jerk at your restraints once more, but they hold snug as ever. Your mind is still feverish, words coming only with difficulty. “P–p–please…”

The quaestor ignores your protests, and brings the scalpel to skin.

“It has been observed that plague-infected organs swell considerably over the course of the disease. We shall be taking measurements from multiple specimens at various stages of progression.”

And they cut.

The razor-sharp blade sinks into your flesh and begins to drag down. Pain sears through you, adrenaline spiking as you struggle desperately, uselessly, against your bonds, tortured cries tearing from your lips.

The quaestor’s hands are steady and precise, leaving a neat line of blood as they cut from chest to groin, splitting your belly evenly along its length.

“Judging by the symptoms, this specimen contracted the disease approximately one point six days ago.”

They set down the scalpel, and then return their hands to the cut they’ve made. Their expert fingers hook down into the incision, and steadily begin to pull you apart.

You scream.

“Doctor 048, please quiet the patient.”

The pain blinds you, stars erupting in your eyes as those merciless fingers continue to work your belly open. Your screams are cut off abruptly when something is stuffed down your throat, making you choke.

“Ah, marvelous.” The fingers vacate your flesh – done with their bloody work, if only for a moment. Tears pool in your eyes and stream down the sides of your face, but you barely notice them. You can’t think straight.

“Now, let’s get a good look at that liver, shall we?”

And their hands are back. One lays across your chest, steadying you and staining your skin with bloody fingerprints. And the other…

The other goes in.

You scream again, the sound muffled considerably by the bundle of cloth that gags you. The pain is too much. _Too much._ You can feel their fingers working inside you, deftly pushing past organs, digging deeper, their entire hand submerged inside you.

There is nothing. Nothing but pain. Your vision is long gone, fading now from chaotic bursts of light into vast, creeping darkness.

Those cold, _cold_ fingers close around something deep inside you. They curl tightly, securing their grip, and they _pull._

The last thing you hear before the darkness overtakes you is that voice, clear and effortlessly calm, cutting through the heavy silence of that crowded, empty cavern.

“Tsk, tsk, passing out already? What a terrible, terrible shame.”


End file.
